


I Don't Know What Else to Do

by xnowimnothing



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band), Nine Inch Nails (Band)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:52:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15420375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xnowimnothing/pseuds/xnowimnothing
Summary: Just another stressful day at the studio.





	I Don't Know What Else to Do

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Manznor ever!! Also, there's no sex. But I'll get there. Hope you enjoy!

The day in the studio didn’t go well.

It had been the umpteenth useless day of work. They should have finished that track three days before, but there they were, pen in one hand, instrument in the other, trying to figure out what was wrong with it.

They were going crazy.

The Spooky Kids had already left the studio, as it was late at night. The problem wasn’t the execution – not this time, at least. It was the idea of the song that was defective.

Brian was sitting next to Trent, in front of the computer. Trent had a notebook in his lap, but he hadn’t written in minutes, nor he was revising what was already there. Brian couldn’t really see his friend’s expression, whose gaze was fixed on the notebook and whose eyes were covered by locks of black hair. He could see his mouth, though. His lips were closed shut. It was never a good sign.

“Trent,” Brian paused, but he didn’t get an answer. “Trent. Let’s try again tomorrow, how about it?”

Trent lifted his gaze, his green eyes fixed into Brian’s ones, his expression quite intimidatory. Brian expected it.

“No,” he said, harsh, and returned his attention to the notebook on his legs.

“Trent,” Brian kept repeating his name as if it granted him more chances to get his attention. “We aren’t getting anything out of this.”

“Fuck you. I’m trying to fix _your_ song and I wish you just let me work.”

Brian took a deep breath. He was trying to keep his cool. He didn’t want it to end up in screams and cries again.

“Trent, you can’t work when you’re so stressed, you know it better than I do. We’ve been in this studio for, like, twelve hours. I’m tired and you are, too. This extra work is useless.”

Trent looked up just when Brian had finished talking. He looked at him for half a second before grabbing the synthesizer near the computer and throwing it to the ground. It broke in a million pieces, and some of them bounced into Brian’s lap. The noise startled him. Trent was a mine.

“You can go, if you really want to! _I_ need to fix this mess!” he was talking about the song obviously, not the synthesizer. The scraps would stay in the studio for weeks.

Trent was trying to keep a neutral, impassive face, but Brian could see his cheeks turning red and his jaw was now more clenched than before. He was almost trembling, and he was avoiding Brian’s gaze.

“Trent, come with me,” Brian said, standing up suddenly from his chair and pushing it back. “I said come.”

“What the fuck do you want?!” now Trent was looking into Brian’s eyes, his own open wide, making his face look rather exasperate. Brian didn’t answer, but he grabbed at his arm, trying very hard to lift him from his chair. Trent resisted him, but he won nonetheless.

“Okay, asshole,” Trent said, challenging him, “just tell me what the fuck you want from me.”

Truth was, Brian knew Trent better than Trent would ever care to admit.

Brian didn’t answer right away. He kept eye contact with Trent for some seconds, and his expression conveyed a sense of comprehension, almost sweetness, even. He squatted down, took a scrap of the synthesizer and he turned it over between his fingers.

“Can I hurt you?”

The muscles in Trent’s face relaxed, and he started breathing again, even though he didn’t remember ever stopping. He lowered his gaze and run his hand through his hair.

“Uh… alright,” he said then, resigned, his voice merely a whisper.

Brian knew that Trent was entrusting him completely now.

Brian sat in front of Trent again and put his hair behind his ears. He then took Trent’s left hand and brought it towards his own face. He kissed it, his fingers first, then his palm, up to his wrist. He stroked his own cheek with the back of Trent’s hand, then he looked him in the eyes, and Trent nodded, shutting them, preparing for what was about to happen next.

Brian ripped the skin of Trent’s forearm with the piece of synthesizer he was holding. Trent’s mouth was closed tight again. He didn’t say anything. His expression was everything but relaxed and Brian could see his heart had started beating faster. Then, he looked at his friend’s arm. A trail of blood had made its way on his white skin and reached his palm. From there, the blood fell down onto the fragments of the synthesizer on the floor.

“One more,” Trent said, imperative, eyes still closed. Brian, whose attention was all drawn to the blood, came back to reality and obeyed.

He intersected the second cut on the first one, forming a kind of a crooked cross. Trent moaned slightly at the contact, but kept his composure. Brian looked at his chest expanding and contracting at first, in sync with his deep breaths, then he looked at the way the blood of his wounds met right over his wrist, creating a line together towards his palm.

Trent fell (almost collapsed) on the chair behind him, sighed and didn’t open his eyes.

“We’re done for today”.


End file.
